


Wake Me Up When It's All Over

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, His Last Vow Spoilers, Mentions of past drug use, Molly saves cats, Not that it's creepy or anything, Season 3 Spoilers, Sherlock sleeps on the morgue table, Sherlock thinks he's a sociopath, Sherlolly - Freeform, but he's not, but it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t right. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t what it should have been. And if Sherlock hadn’t been so inherently selfish, he would not have done what he did next. He leaned down, carefully, tentatively claiming her lips with his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake Me Up When It's All Over

**Author's Note:**

> So I set out to write something. Didn't exactly expect it to turn into this, but. Yanno, things happen.
> 
> You can find me at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com) or prompt more Sherlolly from me [here](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com).
> 
> The S3 spoilers are minor, really, but I tagged them anyway.

Sherlock sank down onto the morgue table with a sigh. Molly was out. He was tired. A few hours sleep and he would be good as new, at least for a while. His mind had not shut off, not for days now, and his last nerve was fraying dangerously thin. Sometimes it got like that, his mind whirling and whirling and him unable to stop it. Unable to sleep because of the overload, because his mind would not stop deducing. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear. If he plugged his ears, he could still feel. There was nothing that could completely eliminate all of the ways humans understood the world. Even as he closed his eyes, attempted to slow the flood of information, his mind wandered into years past. Reflected. Thought. Mused.

He was called a psychopath. A high-functioning sociopath, by his own definition. But neither term was true. Neither term accurately captured the person that he was. It was true on the surface - like a photo, it was the exterior. What someone could see. A carefully constructed facade. Sherlock liked to claim he couldn’t feel, that he was above everything sentimental, that he didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Was incapable of caring about another human being. It was all a lie. A meticulously built lie, over years and years, but it was a lie nonetheless.

It had started when he was a child. Far too brilliant for his own good, he and his red setter (whom Sherlock had proudly named Redbeard, after his favourite pirate from the books Mycroft read him) had gotten into more trouble than his parents had anticipated. He taught himself how to pick locks. How to read. How to sneak into the kitchens and take food from the cook. How to wander off around the grounds but always find his way home. He learned to thrive on puzzles, to desire them, to do anything he could to solve them. Later on in his life, the skills he learned would come in handy. Not in a good way, not in the way anyone would have wished for him. It was a dark path he would walk. One he would travel alone, shunning the hand of anyone who tried to help him.

He had not yet gotten a glimpse of what was to come. Instead his life was full of light and happiness, smiles and laughter. His parents were kind, albeit normal, boringly so sometimes. Then there was Mycroft, who would play games with him when it was too rainy to go outside, who would read him books late at night before bed, Redbeard curled up next to him. The future looked so bright and Sherlock could nearly taste it.

The first time Sherlock got a glimpse of his future, he was 12. He was attending school, meeting ‘normal’ people. It was a unique experience. One he hoped he was prepared for. He had not met many other children, just Mycroft. Instead he had stood in his room, watched the servants’ children come home from school. See them laughing and playing, games he was never welcome to participate in.

Sherlock kissed Redbeard goodbye, glared at his brother, who had denied him a bedtime story the night before, and was ushered out the door. He couldn’t deny that he was excited. There was so much out there to learn, to explore. To deduce and explain. It was like a whole world of possibilities was opening up to him. Books were exciting, amazing, but they were not the same as real life.

However, it was not to be quite as satisfying as Sherlock had hoped.

Within thirty minutes he was in trouble. By the end of the week, there had been a tersely worded phone call to his parents, begging them to come retrieve him and to never bring him back. Sherlock sat quietly, head hanging, his lunch box in his hands, the very picture of dejection, isolation. What had been a source of excitement was clouded by misery. In Sherlock’s mind, he had done nothing wrong. It wasn’t right, for Alan’s father to beat him. Suzie’s Mum was cheating on her husband with his brother. The cat that Ellen had talked so proudly about was a replacement - the original one had likely been ran over, and her Mum didn’t want her to be sad.

Instead of being happy, instead of being proud, they had cried, been cruel. He had been kicked, hit. Throw to the ground by the older students, mocked by those he had tried to befriend. Every little thing he did to make it better backfired, made it worse. Every compliment was twisted into an insult. Every time he tried to reach out, apologise, he was shot down. The teacher hadn’t known what to do with him. Sherlock hadn’t known what to do with the situation. So instead, at the end of the week, he was picked up, and went home, the jeers of the other students echoing in his head. He was a freak. A loser. He was going to be alone the rest of his life. No one would ever love him. Sherlock sat in his bed that night, arms wrapped around his spindly legs. A solitary figure, all alone, staring out the window at the moonlight.

Four years later, Sherlock had been wandering around, Redbeard by his side. Mrs. Turner, their housekeeper, lived in a small cottage to the side with her husband. Sherlock didn’t know her well. Didn’t see her around much. He was almost never home anymore, staying there only to sleep and to steal food. Everything else he got other places. That was what mattered, after all. One day he was out of things to do, sitting under his tree, Redbeard by his side. She stumbled upon him, smiled fondly. Listened to what he had to say, offering not scorn or derision, but a chuckle and motherly acceptance, inviting him back to her cottage for tea with a smile and a fond hug.

Sherlock saw it as plain as the nose on his face. Saw the bruises, the marks, the beatings. All the signs were there. He opened his mouth as she turned around, saw the brittle expression, how she was holding everything together, but just barely. Thought of the jeers at school, of the crying, of the fear, the hatred, and closed his mouth, accepting the tea with a quiet nod and a faint, thankful smile. He didn’t know her, hadn’t known her, yet he felt some kind of kinship with her. she accepted him, and that was more than most people did.

It was a year later, when Sherlock was 17, that his world shifted, started what would be a long descent into the darkest pits of humanity. Redbeard had become old and frail, had taken a turn for the worse, and the only humane option left was euthanasia by lethal injection. Sherlock stroked his muzzle and whispered endearments as the vet slid the needle into the vein, injecting the concoction that would send Sherlock’s only friend away for good. One last kiss to Redbeard’s muzzle, and Sherlock left, slipping the tech money underneath the table. He knew what to do.

That night he buried Redbeard under a tree. It was a good tree, one with fond memories for them both. It was a place that Sherlock had been able to go, to hide. Somewhere he was safe from whatever the world tried to threaten him with. It was a place he would always be able to remember, to cherish the memories he had created. Although there was no tombstone, Sherlock carved Redbeard’s name into the soft wood, ignoring the damage that would be done to the tree. It was worth it. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to the wood, eyes closed. Trying to remember every last detail, so he could hold it in his mind, close to his heart. When things got difficult, when he felt like the world was spinning out of control, he had something that made him happy.

When he returned home, it was to a somber house. Mrs. Turner had died. Had been murdered by her husband in cold blood. Sherlock had sat and listened, or pretended to, all the time replaying the last time he had seen her, having tea just a short month ago. The bruises were there, the marks, the signs, and he had said nothing, nothing over nearly the year they had been meeting. The year she had greeted him, smiled, offered him tea and biscuits. Made him feel at home. He felt numb, like he had been dipped in ice.

She was gone, and it was Sherlock’s fault. He could have spoken up. Should have spoken up. But he didn’t. The guilt ate at him, consumed him. Everything was black. Nothing mattered. He stopped eating, losing weight that he couldn’t afford to lose. Mummy was worried, his father even more so. Sherlock ignored them all, continuing through his life like a zombie. He left home. Tried Uni. When Victor Trevor introduced him to heroin, less than a month later, Sherlock was immediately hooked.

From an objective perspective, things quickly spiraled downward from there. He tried rehab, tried detox. Nothing worked, nothing kept him off the drugs, gave him the buzz that he craved, the ability to shut off his mind long enough for him to get some peace. Something that made the guilt go away. When he shot up, when the heroin swam through his veins, the world felt fuzzy and vivid. He felt forgiven and saved. Then he crashed back to Earth, where everything was harsh and hell, blame and guilt. He showed up to lectures high. Made it through most. His acting was impeccable, no matter how he felt. His arrogance grew as a defense mechanism, shielding what hurt so deeply inside him so that no one could get to him ever again.

It was years later when he got clean. It was a long process, a painful one - but there was incentive, for the first time. A DI from the Yard had offered to take him along on cases, allowed him to get his hands on puzzles, but only if he cleaned up his act, got a place to live, stopped doing drugs. So Sherlock did. Three stints in rehab, twice detoxing in a locked room with no one for company, and he was done. Or so he hoped. An addict was never fully rehabilitated. There was always the risk.

Not that anyone knew that, however. He had built up his persona, his armour, so fiercely that it was all anyone saw. Deductions flew easily, those that hurt and those that were simply observations. He didn’t care what anyone else thought about him anymore, didn’t care about the hateful glares they turned his direction, or the way Sally would beg Lestrade to kick him off cases when she thought Sherlock couldn’t hear. None of that mattered to him. He was impenetrable.

Or so he thought.

One night he was walking home in the light rain, coat swirling behind him like armour and protecting him from the dank weather. He stopped when a silhouette came into view. It was a small woman, in oddly-decorated clothing (he had not previously been aware that they made blouses with dancing bananas on them), crouching down in front of a box. She was talking to it, her voice quiet, and for a moment Sherlock feared that she was an addict who had a fascination for strange, fruit-adorned clothing.

When she stood, she undid the top few buttons of her blouse. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, stepping forward, and then stopping. Carefully the woman lifted a tiny kitten out of the box, shivering and sodden, and started tucking it into her shirt. He stepped forward without a second thought, tugging his scarf off from around his neck and gently took each kitten from her, four in total. His scarf wasn’t much, but it removed some moisture from their coats, kept them warmer, tucked next to her bare skin. There was a light blush on her cheeks, likely from the fact that Sherlock had quite the view of her bra if he so chose, but he didn’t care.

Once the kittens were secure, the woman carefully did her shirt back up, leaving the top button loose and carefully cradling her precious burden with her arms. It ensured that they were safe and as warm as they were able to be with her body heat. She offered him a smile, which he accepted with a nod, before turning and leaving. He was no longer needed.

So when a month later he strode into the morgue and demanded to meet the head pathologist, a Dr. Hooper. When the same mousy woman stepped forward, a tentative look on her face, Sherlock just stood and stared. She blushed immediately, a hand flying to her mouth, the clipboard that had been in her hand clattering to the floor. Lestrade, of course, zoomed immediately in on potential history, demanding to know what was going on. Sherlock ignored him and instead began quizzing her on the victim’s background.

Sometime had gone by since that day. Since he had first met Molly Hooper. At first glance, she had been simple. Easy to manipulate, provided he used the proper smiles and the compliments that she so desired. Sherlock felt empty, every time he turned the smile on, tilted his head just so, asked her for one last favour. Hollow. Like there was a part of him that would forever be missing, shielded as he was. He was a sociopath, after all. There was no way he could feel affection for anyone. It simply wasn’t who he was.

Sherlock had told himself so many lies, so many half-truths, that he no longer knew what was true and what was false. He did not know where one lie started and the other began. No matter what he told himself, something tugged at his heart every time he used her. Every blatant act of manipulation felt like a knife to his chest, slicing through the skin and muscles, piercing that small hollow where the heart was in a normal person. Sherlock told himself that he deserved every last bit of it.

It wasn’t worth it, feeling drawn to someone else. But Molly was different. Molly was quiet and shy, almost pitifully so. That was all Sherlock saw, at first. As time passed, and he faked his death, came back and lived again, he saw more dimensions to Molly, was exposed to her complexities. Although she was shy and quiet, she knew when to stand her ground, and would argue with Sherlock over autopsy findings that he would scowl at.

When he did something wrong, she would correct him. She was more confident in what she did, more competent in her work. Now Sherlock was the one who missed something, who needed corrections. He didn’t snap, didn’t glare, didn’t argue. Instead he lashed out at himself. Considered it payback. Put himself in more dangerous situations. She slapped him when he did wrong, when he insulted someone, when he put himself in danger. She cared. He loved it and hated it, two emotions that were inexplicably intertwined. She stood up for herself. Yet Sherlock kept coming back, kept watching her as she walked around, sliced up various bits of human cadavers. He stared at her intently while she scolded him, reveled in the attention. Unintentionally, Molly Hooper had become what was most important to him. Something he would die to protect.

Somehow, he had fallen in love with the pathologist.

A soft, startled exclamation brought Sherlock to present day. Back to reality, back to the fact that he was laying on a cold, uncomfortable morgue slab like a dead body, yet fully clothed. He opened his eyes, saw Molly watching him, her guarded, pained look reassuring at the same time he wished it away. Oh. Last time she had seen him on a slab, it was substituting a dead body to fake his death. Guilt made him squirm slightly, although he fought not to show it.

Sherlock wasn’t sure why it made him uncomfortable to see her like that, to see her so uncertain and wary around him. At the same time he understood why she was that way, how she saw him as he interacted with other people, with her. Used them all for his own selfish gain. Sociopath. High-functioning. His own words ran through his mind, reminding him. Even as she stood up to him, she had to protect herself.

“Are you okay?” she inquired, her clipboard clutched to her chest. “I just came to check on - Mr. Henderson.” It was a strange juxtaposition, her calm demeanour with her prior behavior, anger mixing with fear when she heard he had put himself at risk. Barely two years ago she would have stammered. Now there was just a slight hesitation - a lie.

Sherlock’s gaze swept her, up and down. “That’s a lie,” he murmured, his voice low and echoing for her benefit. “You blinked twice when you said his name, and you hesitated, albeit briefly. A lie. A half-lie, at least, for while I would guess Mr. Henderson was indeed a visitor to your morgue, I would guess that he is not currently residing in one of the storage units. Probably left last week. You shifted your weight from side to side - you’re nervous, which means you came here to check on something down here, something that made you nervous - oh,” he said slowly, understanding dawning upon his face.

“You weren’t in the lab,” Molly said defensively. “I was just - worried, is all.” She had puffed up like a pufferfish, and Sherlock could not have said why he found it so utterly endearing. He sat up, swinging his legs over to the side as he did so, and looked at her. There was a blush high on her cheeks, giving her face colour that simply enhanced her features. Plain though she appeared, there was something sweet about her, something that Sherlock liked to look at. She was polite to others, generous to a fault, and smart - not on his level, but nothing to laugh at, not in reality.

“How is Toby?” Sherlock inquired quietly, eyes focused on Molly’s face for any hint of emotion. She was so easy to read. There was confusion, wariness, fear, anxiety, and a faint fondness, although Sherlock couldn’t tell if that was for the kittens or for him. He hated that he hoped it was for him. Hated how this small, shy woman had somehow wormed her way into his mind, his consciousness, his heart. He hated how he looked at her and wanted to keep her close, keep her safe, keep her protected, even as he tried to manipulate her to get what he wanted. But now she stood her ground, guarded herself. Didn’t allow him to get away with whatever he wanted.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t what it should have been. And if Sherlock hadn’t been so inherently selfish, he would not have done what he did next. Would not have stood up, crossed the room, and stood in front of Molly Hooper, who was watching him with wide, startled eyes. The normally confident woman, who slapped him when he endangered his sobriety, had turned into a blushing, stuttering teenage girl. “Breathe,” Sherlock rumbled, his voice low and seductive. Molly was unintentionally holding her breath, and the last thing he wanted was her passing out when he kissed her.

He didn’t deserve her. He had absolutely no claim. It was wrong, it was selfish, it was pathetic. But god he wanted her. She inhaled sharply, her lips parting the smallest amount in anticipation, and Sherlock took her head in his impossibly large hands, cradled it gently, like fragile china. Their eyes locked, something sparking between them, heat pooling in his belly, lust and - something else Sherlock didn’t care to name dueling to take control. Sentiment. Always troublesome. Pushing it aside, he leaned down, carefully, tentatively claiming her lips with his.

It was like he was shocked by an electric wire, and the resulting energy slammed through his body into hers, leaving Molly frozen in place. Then she recovered, kissing him back, moving against him, not fighting for control, but simply acknowledging that she was there, that she was willing, that she wanted it. It wasn’t just Sherlock kissing Molly, it was Sherlock kissing Molly who was kissing Sherlock. They weren’t separate entities, but two people moving as one. It was a dance, a waltz, a ballet. Something wonderful and magical, and something Sherlock decided he would fight the rest of his life to never give up.

“Good,” Molly murmured against his mouth when they parted, cheeks flushed red, pulse racing wildly, so quickly that Sherlock could feel it from cradling her face. Sherlock, his heart thundering so loudly he could hear it, took a few seconds to figure out what she meant, what she was answering, and let out a low chuckle. “Toby’s good.”

Their foreheads touched, and then Sherlock straightened up, kissing her forehead cautiously before he drew her closer, pulling her snug against his body. She slid her arms around his waist, possessive, and Sherlock found that he didn’t mind. It was brittle, easily broken, the connection between them. He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t name it. Didn’t want to. He would never be the perfect ‘boyfriend’ that she had wanted. Did want. He wasn’t really sure, not anymore.

Hugging Molly, kissing Molly - it all felt like coming home. Like he was safe. Like he had been lost, lost since the day that he heard Mrs. Turner had died, but had been found. Had found a safe place that he could use as an anchor, and found someone that would truly look out for him and his best interests. “I’m not going to be perfect,” he murmured out loud.

“I know.” Molly’s breath caught in her throat, and it sounded like a half-laugh, half-sob.

“I’m still going to make you calibrate the machines,” he continued.

“I know.” Her grip tightened slightly, and he plunged ahead.

“I’m going to manipulate you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll snap at you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll ignore you when I’m on cases and -” Molly cut him off with a finger on his lips, having pulled back while Sherlock was speaking.

“I know,” she murmured, leaning up on her tip-toes and kissing his cheek. He made eye contact, delighting in the way she blushed, the way her hands fidgeted as she let go of him, obviously not sure how to adjust to the new reality. The fact that Sherlock had kissed her. Wanted something, even if she didn’t know what.

“I don’t do sentiment,” Sherlock said finally, speaking around the finger.

Molly blushed and tried to hide it by picking up the clipboard. “I know.”

Sherlock inclined his head slightly, and Molly fidgeted some more, tapping a pencil against the top of the board in her hands. “Would you like to meet Toby?” she blurted out, turning an even darker shade of scarlet when Sherlock looked her way.

Sherlock thought for a moment, his eyes not leaving Molly’s face, taking in the sharpness, the softness. The warmth, the acceptance. Everything that she thought, everything that she felt showed up on her clever, expressive face. “Yes,” he mused, lifting a hand to cup her cheek, pressing a quick, cheeky kiss to her lips, then a tender one to her forehead.

Bravely, Molly whacked him with her clipboard before setting it aside and leading the way out of the morgue. Sherlock inhaled, exhaled, allowing a strange sort of peace to settle over him, then followed. It felt strange, the feelings of fondness, affection. He had never known that he was lost, never anticipated feeling lonely until he saw what things had been like before he had friends. Molly was more than just a friend. Molly completed him, like she was the last piece of his particular puzzle.

It wouldn’t be perfect. It never was, for humans were inherently trouble, and Sherlock was one of the worst. There were rocks. There were bumps, like any relationship. They fought, they kissed, they argued, they made up. Molly brought home severed toes and Sherlock promised to not blow up 221B, not after the last time. Mrs. Hudson brought tea and fussed over them until Sherlock ordered her out and Molly told him to stop. He sulked on the sofa. Molly used him for a cushion and sat on him until he allowed her to sit down. Sherlock solved crimes, racing about the city with John, often from a clue Molly gave him from the morgue. Clues they would pour over at home, Sherlock careful to not belittle Molly’s assistance or offer more criticism than was appropriate.

(He had learned his lesson last time. Molly could be quite dangerous when she wanted to be. It had been quite the mistake, teaching her how to set traps in the flat. She had created some concoction made from honey that was rather difficult to clean off one’s skin - although he had to admit that her assistance made the entire experience far more enjoyable.)

It was a strange type of domestic life that existed in 221B, but it suited them fine. It was their home, his and Molly, and they belonged to each other, forever and ever. Together, they would face whatever the world brought their way, whether it was today, tomorrow, or years down the road.


End file.
